Yours faithfully,

Sibyl Eversleigh.

P. S. Why did you let me cry over that man’s tomb in the church?

Randolph looked again at the date, and then hurriedly consulted the shipping list.  She was due in ten days.  Yet, delighted as he was with that prospect, and touched as he had been with her courage and naive determination, after his first joy he laid the letter down with a sigh.  For whatever was his ultimate ambition, he was still a mere salaried clerk; whatever was her self-sacrificing purpose, she was still the rich heiress.  The seal of secrecy had been broken, yet the situation remained unchanged; their association must still be dominated by it.  And he shrank from the thought of making her girlish appeal to him for help an opportunity for revealing his real feelings.

This instinct was strengthened by the somewhat formal manner in which Mr. Dingwall announced her approaching visit.  “Miss Eversleigh will stay with Mrs. Dingwall while she is here, on account of her—­er—­position, and the fact that she is without a chaperon.  Mrs. Dingwall will, of course, be glad to receive any friends Miss Eversleigh would like to see.”

Randolph frankly returned that Miss Eversleigh had written to him, and that he would be glad to present himself.  Nothing more was said, but as the days passed he could not help noticing that, in proportion as Mr. Dingwall’s manner became more stiff and ceremonious, Mr. Revelstoke’s usually crisp, good-humored suggestions grew more deliberate, and Randolph found himself once or twice the subject of the president’s penetrating but smiling scrutiny.  And the day before Miss Eversleigh’s arrival his natural excitement was a little heightened by a summons to Mr. Revelstoke’s private office.

As he entered, the president laid aside his pen and closed the door.

“I have never made it my business, Trent,” he said, with good-humored brusqueness, “to interfere in my employees’ private affairs, unless they affect their relations to the bank, and I haven’t had the least occasion to do so with you.  Neither has Mr. Dingwall, although it is on his behalf that I am now speaking.”  As Randolph listened with a contracted brow, he went on with a grim smile:  “But he is an Englishman, you know, and has certain ideas of the importance of ‘position,’ particularly among his own people.  He wishes me, therefore, to warn you of what he calls the ‘disparity’ of your position and that of a young English lady—­Miss Eversleigh—­with whom you have some acquaintance, and in whom,” he added with a still grimmer satisfaction, “he fears you are too deeply interested.”

Randolph blazed.  “If Mr. Dingwall had asked me, sir,” he said hotly, “I would have told him that I have never yet had to be reminded that Miss Eversleigh is a rich heiress and I only a poor clerk, but as to his using her name in such a connection, or dictating to me the manner of”—­